


Now and Now and Now

by PromisesArePieCrust



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:58:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5203265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromisesArePieCrust/pseuds/PromisesArePieCrust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack arrives in London. Musings on partnership.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now and Now and Now

Lying awake in bed, she rested her head on Jack’s shoulder, her arm stretching across his chest to rest on his bicep. He seemed so slim to look at, but to touch the rise and fall, the swells of his muscles, he felt bulky. He felt altogether different than he looked, she decided. 

Occasionally the arm that sloped across her back and buttock would twitch in sleep, giving her a hope that he might have roused and she could divert her brain from thinking and get back to action. Action was her stronger suit, she felt. But as his steady breath and still limbs confirmed his continued slumber, her instinct to see him rested and cared for after his long journey overcame her desire to repeatedly confirm with their bodies what their intellects and hearts had decided. She allowed her mind to drift to earlier in the evening.

_She had not expected him in London for another two days. She heard the knock and wondered if it was cause for concern, a troubled neighbour or some emergency? It was certainly too late for a social call. She was dressed in a new flannel-lined robe, not as stunning as her oriental-styled ones, but warm against the November chill. She had only day-help at this residence, and she hesitated to answer, but couldn’t bear to think if it was someone in distress that she might have turned him or her away. She looked through the distorting coloured glass of the sidelight, hand on the door, and felt a thrill bubble immediately, numbing her fingers and toes. A familiar form, fidgeting a bit nervously, was at her doorstep. She opened the door quickly praying that it wasn’t a mirage, and was so deeply gratified that it was him, real-life Jack Robinson, his expression changing from dumbfounded to tender and hopeful. She cold barely say his name through her enthusiasm, she was swaying, practically swooning, not sure if she would fall out the door or backwards into her foyer. He stepped forward and steadied her, smiling, probably with pride that he had made such an impact. She laughed at his smile, laughed at herself, laughed her utter delight._

_“Where are your bags?” she asked him._

_“At the hotel three blocks over. My ship was early, I didn’t want to presume…”_

_“I see, how thoughtful of you,” she tucked her face into his neck, still trembling a bit, “but presume, presume…”_

_“Presume what, Phryne?” He held her face in his hands, his thumb brushing lightly at places he followed with short swipes of his lips. He was waiting for the ineffable to become concrete._

_“I don’t know, Jack, I’m just so happy to see you.” She laughed a little, her giggle threaded with a whisper of a sob as she nervously fingered the sash of her robe. She realised it had been a long time since she had wanted something--most things she could take or leave. She looked up at him, and he seemed assured. He kissed her lips at last, and she let go of her sash-cum-lifeline, wrapping her arms around his neck and allowing herself to want._

Listening at his chest now, she heard one heart beat and felt another. It was unclear to her if she was hearing her own heartbeat through her pressed ear—hearing her own, and maybe feeling his? Or feeling her own and hearing his? She concentrated, trying to see if she could untangle their pulses.

During their lovemaking, naked and overwhelmed with the paradox of the newness and familiarity of each other, she had heard his rushed, hoarse whisper “be my wife” pressed against her lips. He seemed unable to keep the words in and less able to believe they came out. She looked at him through half-open eyelids, eyes that probably looked like they didn’t register his plea. He seemed greatly relieved that it seemed she hadn’t heard, as he kept the rhythm of their rocking and kissed her with renewed energy. She had the grace to pretend she hadn’t heard, pretended that it was an indistinct endearment that was lost in her moans and heavy breathing. Maybe it was.

She couldn’t fault him for his preferences, any more than she could fault her own. She didn’t resent his accidental proposal, nor did it strike her as stifling, nor could she claim to be so surprised by it. It had occurred to her when she got his message that he was coming to London that he probably had given some thought to a more commonly recognised definition of their partnership. Her mind was not made up, but it relieved her that the prospect of something more commonly recognised wasn’t frightening. At least not while she lay here.

She had made good on her half-promise, half-threat at the airfield that there was a whole world out there. When she made it to England, she rejoiced at the strength of her limbs, the sharpness of her mind, her steely nerves. She had made the flight safely, and she felt fabulous, strong, invigorated at her success, and she dearly wished to celebrate. Two occasions had brought bright young things to her home. Two enjoyable evenings, which, while they did not end in her bed, still celebrated their flesh, the body electric as the American poet deliciously called it. It felt wise, it felt safe to bring those men home, for not only was it the celebration of flesh, it was as though she had a back-up plan, or at least the wherewithal to execute one should the need arise. She was hedging her bets, as any gambler’s progeny would know to do. She did not regret this tendency, as the world could be a difficult place.

Yet there was something endlessly fascinating about watching people who are “confirmed” anythings transform by simply reacting to circumstances and letting life change them. She recognised these changes in Jack as he became more comfortable with the modern woman, or with bending rules, but noticed it more in herself. Two years ago she valued nothing more than her freedom and mobility— then she bought a house and filled it with family. Promises, to one’s self or others, are so hard to make given that no circumstances are predictable. No, she corrected herself, promises are very easy to make. They are simply not kept. That is the loophole the rigid don’t acknowledge. 

What promise could she make to this dear man that would require no loophole to escape? She considered this question seriously. The traditional vows of “endless love” did not resonate with her. Putting the beloved before one’s self? She need only look at her mother to see how well that worked. But every revision she tried seemed paltry and dreadfully unromantic. ‘I promise that I love you now?’ Even she would probably be offended by hearing something as mealymouthed as that. ‘I promise to do the best I can?’ True enough, but still meagre. ‘I promise to be genuine.’ That maybe got closer to a truth.

She felt a warm thread of his semen trail to her inner thigh and looked up at him, adjusting her head a bit to stare at his profile. When did she start to think him handsome? Initially she found him well-made but forgettable. Soon after, she thought him attractive, but who is not attractive when competent, dedicated, sensible and sensitive? And finally, when did it become the case that, when he made an overture, she could say truthfully that she wanted it more than anything? She felt a twinge of guilt about that, for it was surely no coincidence that within a few days of his overture, she chose to fly ridiculous distances rather than give him time to improve it—that crossing three continents was less intimidating than facing a man who acknowledged his love and who had hers in return. And now she had lured him here, likely at the expense of his job. She felt remorse, but it didn’t bear too much thinking about. They would make mistakes, they would laugh and cry, they would wreck things and fix them as best they could, and they would still be alive, putting one foot in front of the other. 

Watching him sleep she felt staggeringly happy. The future is unnerving, even when shimmering with hope. The only thing that she didn’t find unnerving is now, and now, and now. Her inhale, her exhale, her heartbeat. And, right now, his.


End file.
